Dusk
"Come on lads, we don't have all day!" Mr. Cook folded his arms and gave the boys his signature scowl. "Buddy up so we can start this damn trip! And remember, you're stuck with them for the entire week!"
John looked down at his boots and studied the cracked mud reaching up from the soles. Why did Mum have to send me on another scouts trip? he thought, scrunching his fingers into a fist. She knows I hate them, and even my bloody sister would rather be going. They were all the same, these week-long camping trips. Cold nights, colder showers, and a whole lot of fourteen year-old boys screaming and yelling and fighting with sticks.
There was a gentle tap on his shoulder. John turned to find a tall, lanky boy staring back at him. He had just a few dark curls peaking out from beneath a woolen hat pulled low over his forehead. A tiny skull-and-crossbones was stitched just above the ear.
"There's no on else," the boy said, tugging at the hem of his coat.
John stared back, frowning. "Sorry?"
"There's no on else. Well, except for me and you. All the other boys have paired up." The boy pointed over John's shoulder at the line of boys heading out down the path. Sure enough, two-by-two they walked, cheering and whooping and stomping like the entire forest was just for them. "By my accounts I'm the only option you're likely to have."
"I don't even know your name," John said, settling his eyes back on the boy before him. Like the sea, he noted, glancing at his eyes. Like the sea was left out for too long in the sun and now the color's all washed away.
"I'm new." he said, shoving both hands deep inside his pockets. "My brother was a scout, though. They all said I'd love it here just like Mycroft."
"They said the same to me," John replied, giving the boy a faint smile. "I wouldn't hold out too much hope." The boy nodded like he already knew. When his head bent down the white embroidery flashed into view. "What's that for?" John asked, pointing.
A grin spread on his long face as he tugged off the hat, dark curls spilling out in the process. "My mum's not much for sewing, but I asked her to make an exception for my birthday once." The boy gestured for John to take it. The wool was soft, and obviously well-loved through the years. "I wanted to be a pirate," he explained, leaning forward to trace the small skull.
When John examined the hat he noticed an old spot rippling across the back, like the fabric had been burnt. "What happened here?"
"Oh," he started, shifting his feet. "That was Mycroft. He tried to throw it away a few months ago. He said pirates don't exist, and that I'd be better off studying chemistry or something."
"Well," John said, flipping the hat back over to look at the skull. "I think you'd make a great pirate." John stretched open the elastic and stood up on his tiptoes to lower the cap back over the dark curls, tucking them neatly inside When he was done John looked away, suddenly embarrassed at the heat rising to his cheeks. "Erm, we should get back to the group," John started, clearing his throat. "They're probably far down the path now."
The boy nodded and shoved his hands back in his pockets. The rest of the boys were a faint dot in the distance, but their heavy footprints were easy enough to follow down the slick path. Only watery light streaked through the dense trees, flitting through in greys and burnt oranges and sad reds. Even the sun doesn't want to be here.
As they walked, John felt the boy's presence beside him and listened to the soft rustling of his coat. For some reason he found himself matching the boy's stride. "I'm John," he said quietly, not lifting his eyes from their splattered boots.
"Sherlock," the dark-haired boy replied. "You have a nice name."
John smirked at that. "And you have a funny one."